Naar Lænkerne Brytes
by Mikel Midnight
Summary: From an alternate Great Britain dominated by Norwegian culture, a soldier chosen to be the champion of the Isles traverses the remains of Old Asgard.


From the muzzle of the German tank there came a flash of light like the surface of a star, and intense pain. Alfred Raven felt himself being carried by a pair of strong arms. Barely conscious, he sensed being picked up and placed across a horse. There was a glimpse of a woman's face with long blonde hair, before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, he found himself in a field. It was night-time. He looked down, and found his uniform intact. He didn't understand why _he_ hadn't been destroyed.

The countryside didn't look like Kristiana, he thought to himself. Norway? Definitely Scandinavian. How had he gotten there? It was chilly, and he suspected the nights would be colder; he wished he had brought his insulated uniform.

Off in the distance, he spied what might have been a trail of smoke. Civilisation, perhaps. He looked around, saw no preferable option for going in any other direction, and headed towards it.

He walked for miles, surprised at his strength. The chill ought to be affecting his rheumatism by now ... he felt like he was a young man in his 20's again. He decided he was probably delirious. As the sky darkened, he felt a touch of cold on his bare face. He looked up ... it was starting to snow. He felt a thrill and wanted to laugh, but realised the seriousness of the situation. He wrapped his arms around his body and continued on, trying hard to keep in a straight line to the area of the no-longer-visible smoke trail. He saw no other landmarks and understood the dangers of going in circles.

After a while he saw a dim light, and paced towards it. He came across a campfire, near which was seated a burly, bearded man. He approached him. "Vil du snakke Norsk?"

The man looked at Alf. "I speaks Engelske." He looked back at the fire.

Alf nodded. "I think I'm lost here. Can you tell me where I am?"

The man spat into the fire, causing it to sizzle. "Yep, but tha's not my job. I yam Seagar."

Alf nodded, and hunched down close to the fire opposite the strange man. "Call me ... Jonas Fjeld."

Seagar snorted. "Yur name is Alfred Raven, I ain't ignr'nt."

Alf blinked. "You know me ... what is your job then, if it's not to tell me where I am?"

Seagar said, solemnly, "To keep ya from freezink to death o'ernight."

Alf nodded, slowly, warming his hands.

Seagar stood up. "But other than that, I yam free to do what I want. An' I wants to ast ya sumpin seriousk."

Alf's head went up, following the motion of the giant of a man as his form blotted out the background. "If there is any way I can be of help, Mr. Seagar ... "

Seagar demanded, "What's so skpecial about ya? I kepk the faith. I knows the name that the god of the storms heard, no matter where ya were when ya spoke it. I've slain men across centuries of war and I kin still drink enough to drive mosk men blind. Itksa myskery an' I hates myskeries."

Alf's muscles grew taught at Seagar's belligerent tone. "I'm not sure I catch your meaning ... you won't even explain to me what I'm doing here. I don't think there's anything special about me ... I'm just lost."

Seagar shouted, "Ja even know this land? Any Norskeman would see them mountains and know 'em! They's a part of our blood."

Alf stood up quickly. His eyes narrowed. While the bloodlines of Norway ran deep in his native Storbritannia, the phrase had taken on suspicious connotations after recent German political rhetoric. "Nordic blood? I think you have me confused with someone else ... perhaps I should be on my way."

Seagar spat at the ground at Alf's feet. "I fights the same war as you, ya blartsed ijot. Ya folks of the Isles have never understood our ways ... full o' womanisk senskibilities, worshikatin' trees and putsking flowers in yer hair."

Alf was formulating a reply when the larger man lunged at him. He raised his hands to protect his face, and the impact made his feet slide backwards in the snow. He bent his body, falling backwards and throwing Seagar behind him, and somersaulting to his feet and meeting Seagar face-on.

Seagar walked quickly to Alf and took hold of both his wrists, moving with surprising speed. He lifted Alf off his feet, raised him over his head and flung him to the side. Alf rolled again but Seagar spun across the snow, using his momentum to land where Alf was standing and catching him again. The assailants fell to the ground.

The two men wrestled on the ground. Alf grabbed a handful of snow and desperately flung it into Seagar's eyes. Seagar shook his head, distracted, and Alf attempted to slip loose of his grip.

He had barely caught his breath when he felt Seagar's fingers around his throat. Alf kicked at him wildly but the large man was unaffected. Very well, he thought ... no man's fingers are more powerful than another man's hands.

He reached up, and grabbed one of Seagar's index fingers, and started forcing it back. Seagar's mouth twisted into a snarl, and his hands tightened. Alf tried to swallow painfully, and saw bright spots dancing before his eyes. But the finger started to give ... and he heard an audible crack as the bone broke.

Seagar loosened his grip reflexively, only for a second, but it was just enough. Alf slammed Seagar's adam's apple with the side of his hand, then kicked him hard in the stomach, attempting to use the leverage to break himself free of the man's grip.

Alf fell loose, and Seagar folded. Alf landed on his back, the cold air burning his throat as he gulped it down. The two men did not move for a brief period, but Alf was the first on his feet.

Seagar had barely raised himself to his knees when Alf landed on him with a flying kick to the head... Seagar fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. He lay, unmoving for a time. Alf backed away a few feet and stood, braced into a battle stance, fighting just to stay on his feet from exhaustion.

Seconds passed. Seagar rolled around onto his hands and knees, then slid so his back was to Alf. He slowly got up, and walked back to the fire. "Ya'll do," he grumbled, almost indiscernibly. Alf stood in the cold for a minute, then walked over to where Seagar sat by the fire and joined him, squatting opposite him, watching the flickering light from the flames dance across Seagar's gold beard and battle-scarred face.

* * *

The next morning Seagar pointed to the west. "At's where yur to be pilgrimatin'. The land'll be warmer now and ya'll have no trouble keepin' a straight path. Keepsk yur eye on the clefk in the center of that mountain and fly straight as a bird."

Alf looked at him. "Seagar, you won't be accompanying me?"

Seagar looked infinitely sad. "Correk, I ain't gonna be witcha. That isk denied me. Get outska my sight, unlesk ya wants more fiskfightin'."

Alf nodded and walked off. As he neared the mountain he noted its unusual shape, and was started to find as he approached its base that it was in fact a man made of stone, nine leagues high, three leagues across the chest, so tall that the clouds gathered around his head. Who had carved such a testament he could not guess. It must have been centuries ago, as the figure was weathered and covered with plants which had taken root. He stood, leaning against a giant stone ankle for some time, before he saw another structure down at the base of a crevice. As he took his hand away, bits of the giant crumbled free. It was not stone at all, but clay.

The other structure, roofed with gold, was a castle made of immense slabs of stone, each one easily 400 tons. The design was unfamiliar to him ... evidently squarish in style, but as he approached he realised that was an optical illusion. The building was constructed in a variety of complex shapes and angles that from a distance only appeared square. There was one open door, which he entered.

He heard a caw above him, and a pair of ebony ravens circled down from the sky, to land at his feet. He knelt down, and they tilted their heads to examine him, unafraid. "Hello, little namesakes," he grinned. "Maybe you'll be a good omen for me."

He found himself in a large room, illuminated by the sunlight coming through the open windows. The designs on the walls were delicately carved from gold, and the light reflected off them, scattering across the room. In the center of the room was a small pedestal. On the pedestal was a golden chessboard.

Alf walked over to the chessboard. He put out a hand to pick up one of the figurines when he heard a voice from behind him. "Tempting, are they not?"

He turned around; there stood seven men. They appeared to be in their mid-thirties, but their eyes seemed ancient. One of them, a man with hair so blond it was almost white, came forward and spoke. "We greet thee, Raven. I am called Balder. My friends you see before you are Vidar and Vali, Modi and Magni, Hod and Honir. We have been waiting for thee for a long time." The ravens which had accompanied Alf fluttered over to land on Balder's shoulders.

Alf stood back, bemused. "You are ... the ones Seagar said had 'chosen' me?"

Balder nodded. "The very same. Thou mayst call us .. the Old Gods. Honir," he nodded to indicate a well-built and handsome man, "had been told by the twinned ravens Merlin and Roma, who had once sat on the shoulders of and advised Highfather Odin, that thee would be needed, and so we had thee brought here to the shining plains of Idavoll at the moment of thy death. Some of our number, the sons of Vili and Ve, disagreed with our choice. They have chosen to be elsewhere now."

Alf said, "But ... I didn't die ... I felt someone rescue me ... I thought it was ... I found myself here."

Balder waved a hand dismissively. "That woman was a chooser of the slain, not a rescuer of those in need. Tell me, Raven, thou art familiar with the concept of the Trinity?"

Alf nodded, slowly, barely able to comprehend what the other man was saying. "The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?"

The man known as Vidar said, "Who?"

The man Balder had identified as Honir came forward, ignoring Vidar. "The three-way relation defines all existence. The three castes of mankind: religious, warrior, and worker. The three Norns Urda, Verdandi, and Skuld who allot their lives to the sons of men and assign to them their fate. The semiotic categories of sign, object, and interpretant. The tricentric structure of the universe with the heavens, the earth, and the underworld. The stability of three can be exemplified by brute and homely fact when we look upon the three-legged stool and contrast its firmness with the wobbly four legs or the toppling two. And three by three is nine, the magical number which ... "

Balder raised a hand, interrupted Honir. "He need not be told all this now. Raven, a great crisis is to come upon the many worlds one day, a crisis so great that it requires a unique hero. A hero with a tripartite soul."

Alf said, "And ... you want me to be ... one third of this hero?"

Balder nodded, silently.

Alf asked, "And who ... who are the other two?"

Modi, a younger man with flaming red hair and a beard, came forward. "One third was my father, the guardian of law and order throughout the many worlds, known as Thorr. Honir tells us the other third is a man who has not yet been taken by the Hela. When his time has come, he shall be joined with thee, and thou shalt be prepared for what awaits."

Alf looked at him confusedly. "Hela? I don't understand."

Balder shook his head. "It matters not. Wilst thou assist us, Raven?"

Alf shuddered. "This is all so much to take in, but ... I have spent my life trying to do good ... trying to be a hero. If what you say is true ... it appears I have little choice."

Balder nodded. "Very well. Thou wilt have a weapon to help thee."

Vidar came forward holding a long wooden staff. He said, "This is the unbreakable staff of my mother, the giantess Grid, used by Thorr when he slew the giant Geirrod. Thou shalt have the use of it now."

Magni, who looked enough like Modi to be his brother, came forward holding a massive hammer. Alf noticed that the handle of the hammer was rather short, given its size. "And this is the chosen weapon of my father Thorr, forged by the black elf Brokk. Much of his soul was imparted to it, and it is from it that it shall be imparted to thee. It shall fortify thy body that thee may survive the passage ahead."

Hod came forward next. His eyes were covered by a band of cloth, as if he were blind. Alf noticed beneath the cloth a facial similarity to Balder, but he seemed graver and quieter. He said, "Thou hadst weapons of thine own, did thee not?"

Alf was dumfounded. "I had ... training in modern armaments, if that's what you mean?"

Hod nodded. "Hold the image of thy 'modern armaments' in thy mind. Imagine all the mechanisms that thou didst utilise to work their magic."

Balder reached out, took one of Hod's hands and placed it on Alf's forehead. With great gentleness, he closed Alf's eyes. Alf felt a light filling his mind, and when he opened it, Vidar was holding in his hands a new staff which seemed to bristle with technological refinements.

Vidar handed the now-golden staff to him. "A fine weapon, it uses light torn from the sparks of Muspell, the land of flame."

Balder said, "Enough! The time has come for his return to the land of men. He shall learn the capacities of the Star Sceptre in his own time and ways. Fare thee well Kaptein Storbritannia, third raven of Odin."

Alf said, "But what ...

... and found himself falling, before his eyes danced all the color of the rainbow. He opened his eyes to see ...

... London. He looked in a store front glass window, and his costume was changed: his military uniform was replaced by a metallic blue breastplate, on the shoulders of which were black, red, and white stripes which evoked the design of the Union Jack. A red cloak appeared around his shoulders, matching billowing red sleeves which ended in white gloves. On his head was a gleaming white helm, with two silver winglets at the sides of his head. These revelations paled to that of his face: he looked like a man of twenty again!

Kaptein Storbritannia looked around. The air smelled different, though he couldn't quite place it. The cars looked amazing ... streamlined like something from a science fiction movie. And the clothes ... most of the older men looked reasonable, although they weren't wearing hats and the cut of the clothes was different. But the younger men seemed to be dressed like barbarians, and the younger girls seemed barely dressed at all, wearing bright colors and garments that ended mid-thigh.

Kaptein Storbritannia thought, "My god ... is this another mad place? Where have they sent me?"

He wandered by a newsstand. He walked over, people looking at him curiously, parting in the street, some pointing. The date on the paper read 1976.

* * *

I had briefly considered assigning this story to the Corpswoman Maid Brittania, before deciding her uniform was more Roman than Norse. The female warrior she'd have faced down would have been named Olje … that's Norwegian for 'Oil' as in Olive Oyl. I was too pleased with myself for the pun to allow it to go unremarked.


End file.
